


Ice

by threewalls



Series: Schirra [16]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 702 OV, Community: kink_bingo, Ice Play, M/M, Masochism, Painplay, Rabanastre, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vossler complains it's too hot for sex; Basch finds a creative solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice

This summer is nothing but a heatwave, coinciding with a Giza dry spell that denies the quick-flash rain-showers that make Dalmascan summers bearable in the capital. Even Basch's captain's suite is nothing less than an oven, heat baked into the brick. With no breeze to stir between the room's two windows, they tacked down the heatshades. Not merely an oven, but a dark oven.

They are lying side by side, nothing but tepid air resting over their bare skin, cooling the sweat that had come from their first, eager, fumbling, thwarted attempt at sex. Vossler is half-hard, half-soft, his skin pricking with sensitivity anywhere it meets the aura of Basch's body heat. Too hot to fuck, far too hot to patrol in the Sands, too early to hit the mess: Vossler wants to hit something all right, but he has not the will to move.

Basch's fingers, burning, graze his side. Vossler slaps them away without opening his eyes. "It's too hot to fuck."

The mattress dips, as Basch swings his legs off the edge of the bed. He steps onto the floor-tiles, reaching down for his shorts.

Vossler tried to sit up, and gets a hot, too hot, hand pressing him down from the centre of his chest.

"Stay there. I have an idea."

Basch returns with a bucket full of something that strikes the metal sides like gravel. The bed had seemed no cooler for Basch's absence, but the bucket is cold, the chill wafting from it. Ice. Vossler's body rolls towards it.

"Stay."

Basch's hot hand stops Vossler, repositions him on his back. The muscles of Vossler's abdomen tighten, despite the heat. His cock stirs.

Vossler reaches back, palms flat against the headboard. The posture is instantly uncomfortable, but the ache in his arms draws him back to wakefulness. "Stay still?" he asks. It's a different question.

Basch's hand runs the taut length of Vossler's arm, shoulder to wrist, and back again, humming under his breath.

"Stay still until I tell you move."

Basch moves away, then, but not far, his heat hanging no longer directly above Vossler, but to his side, beside the bed.

The mattress dips, heat renewed by Vossler's hip, and Vossler stays still. Then the bucket moves, the ice shifting, another tempting cool almost breeze that Vossler holds himself rigid against. And then a drop of water falls onto Vossler's chest. Vossler hisses. It burns.

But the ice itself is worse.

When Basch drags a chip of ice down the line of Vossler's breast, it is all Vossler can do not to kick, not to flinch. Ice dips and glides along his skin, a burning that softens, water deepening sweat trickles down the sides of his body, another chip of ice pricking him anew.

Basch must hold the ice chips all of one hand, because once the ice has burnt Vossler's nipple numb, hot fingers twist it back into sharp feeling. Basch's mouth-- the soon too rough pad of his tongue-- his teeth, biting, sucking. The heat of his mouth, even the rasp of Basch's beard-- what man would not wear his chest waxed in this -- the heat of Basch's body as he leans over Vossler, and then the sharp shock of an ice chip laid in Vossler's navel, just as Basch's hand closes about Vossler's cock.

Vossler grunts, eyes tight shut even in the dark.

"That good?"

Vossler can hear the grin in Basch's voice, his pleasure familiar and unmistakable in his tone, fond of his own ingenuity, because he thinks Vossler likes the ice. Vossler does, but it hurts; he likes it because it hurts; but Basch must think it feels good.

Basch twists Vossler twice, and lets go.

"Cock tease."

"Never that," Basch says, his heat bending sudden and close over Vossler's groin. His lips are hot, taking Vossler in. Vossler's knuckles ache from gripping the headboard, and it is only Basch's hands on Vossler's thighs that keep Vossler from arching from the bed. Vossler's head jerks back, hitting the pillow.

Pashtarot, Basch has ice chips in his mouth.


End file.
